


Surprising (Whumptober 2020 Day 7)

by Jadelyn



Series: Whumptober 2020 [7]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Elf Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27124672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadelyn/pseuds/Jadelyn
Summary: When Geralt is captured by the elves in Dol Blathanna, instead of killing him or letting him go Filavandrel lets Toruviel take out some of her anger on him instead.  When she threatens to take things too far, Geralt finds himself rescued by an elven healer with the bluest eyes he's ever seen.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Whumptober 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953790
Comments: 15
Kudos: 306





	Surprising (Whumptober 2020 Day 7)

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: No 7. I'VE GOT YOU  
> Support | Carrying | Enemy to Caretaker

Geralt's day had been full of surprises.

This was not a good thing.

He hadn't expected the Sylvan. Even less had he expected the elves the Sylvan had been working for.

Filavandrel, too, had been a surprise, as had the feeling Geralt had had of meeting a kindred spirit, someone in similar pain.

Apparently, however, that feeling hadn't translated well. Even as he'd cautioned the elf-King about the perils of choosing the lesser evil ( _bloody and hating yourself,_ he said, and he could still feel the sticky warmth of Renfri's blood and the way her weight, slight as it had been, had crushed him beneath it as he lowered her lifeless body to the cold stones) Filavandrel's eyes had grown icy. And while Geralt hadn't exactly expected to be set free, he'd at least figured Filavandrel would give him the benefit of a quick, clean death.

So the nod Filavandrel had given Toruviel as he'd withdrawn - to think over the situation and decide what to do, he'd claimed, though Geralt suspected that might just be code for getting drunk on liquor made from stolen grain to avoid thinking about anything at all - had been yet another surprise.

Her boot meeting his balls, though? That hadn't been surprising in the slightest. Nor had the fist to the face after that, the kicks to the ribs once he'd fallen onto his side in the dirt…he'd lost track a little bit, after that. It wasn't only Toruviel, either, and his world had quickly narrowed to a sort of bloody procession of fists and feet, knees and elbows belonging to what seemed like maybe every remaining elf on the Continent.

It was a surprise again when it all just…stopped. Not a particularly welcome one, actually - without the continued beating to focus on, Geralt had nothing to distract him from feeling the resulting pain. He lay still, surrounded by the scent and taste of his own blood, and idly catalogued his injuries.

Broken nose, of course. Split lip, a couple of loose teeth, blood from where he'd accidentally bitten his tongue. Ears ringing and vision wavering from various direct blows to the head. He moved his attention downward.

A dislocated shoulder, from being wrenched back and tied and then kicked at the wrong angle while in that strained position. Ribs a fucking mess. At least two broken fingers from where one of his assailants had stumbled and stepped on his hands.

At least the earlier kick in the balls hadn't been repeated. Once was plenty for that, the ache still lingering throughout his groin and into his belly. All the mutagens in the world apparently couldn't create something immune to that particular form of pain, which somehow seemed to slip right past the enhanced pain tolerance the mutagens had given him. It was an irony he’d always thought was deeply unfair.

And oh, good, here was another surprise: hands on him, but gently, freeing his wrists and easing him up to sit, leaning against his rescuer.

The fuck?

Geralt blinked away the pain and looked up.

He was leaning against an…outright unfairly attractive chest, in fact, a thin shirt barely hiding hard planes of muscle and a startlingly thick scruff of chest hair. Tipping his head back further, he found himself confronted with eyes the precise hue of the midwinter sky the morning after a snowstorm.

Unfortunately, those eyes were looking at him with barely restrained frustration and anger. Which didn't seem fair. It wasn't like he'd done anything lately except lie there and get the shit kicked out of him.

The eyes widened fractionally, then the owner of the eyes looked past him. "You said it was a human." The tone was accusatory.

"Witchers were created by humans, they start out human, and they work for humans," Toruviel snapped. "Close enough."

Geralt's unexpected savior sighed and pinched his eyes shut. "No, Toruviel, it's not, and since Filavandrel specifically told you not to kill it yet you're damned lucky there's a difference." Those blue eyes glanced down wearily and met Geralt's own. "If this had been a human you might well have killed it already." Toruviel started to scoff, but this other elf cut her off sharply. "Humans can't withstand that much head trauma, Tor."

"Witchers don't much care for it either," Geralt rasped dryly.

The blue-eyed elf barked out a startled laugh. "All right then, witcher. If you're capable of making jokes you're capable of coming with me to the healing room so I can work on you in peace." He rose and hauled Geralt up after him with surprising strength, looping his less-injured arm over the elf's shoulders and taking most of his weight.

Even knowing that this elf was a healer who'd obviously been sent to tend to his injuries, Geralt wasn't expecting much by way of compassion. So it was further surprising when, instead of being hauled down the corridor at a speed that would've been agonizingly painful on his various injuries, blue-eyes kept a gentle pace that was only distressing rather than excruciating. He chattered the whole time, too, without seeming to expect much of a response from Geralt. It was…nice, like listening to a rushing stream or little waterfall. Peaceful. For a slightly odd definition of _peaceful_ , anyway.

In the healing room blue-eyes lowered him to sit on a pallet against the wall and ordered him to stay upright for a moment. Geralt leaned carefully against the rock wall and watched through half-lidded eyes as the elf gathered tinctures and bandages and various other healing accouterments.

"Aelirenn's blood," he muttered as he came back and knelt before Geralt, looking him over. "Where the fuck do I even start with this mess?"

Geralt thought about laughing, but the creaking of his ribs dissuaded him.

Blue-eyes seemed to hear it anyway, eyes crinkling ruefully as he looked at Geralt. "All right, all right, witcher. No need to laugh at my ineptitude."

"How can I laugh at your ineptitude?" Geralt asked. "You haven't done anything yet."

The elf rolled his eyes dramatically. "Just for that I ought to let you patch yourself up." But even as he said it he was reaching for Geralt's arm, bracing and moving it til the shoulder popped back into place.

Geralt stifled a grunt of pain. Dislocated limbs were particularly frustrating: they hurt while they were out of joint, but putting them back didn't make them stop hurting, just changed the type of pain.

"My name is Jaskier, by the way," the elf said as he took Geralt's hand and forced the broken fingers straight, then placed a scrap of wood beneath them and began winding cloth about fingers and wood alike to hold them still. "And yours, gwynbleidd?"

Geralt took a moment to parse that in his slightly rusty Elder speech. White wolf, he realized, and his lips quirked faintly. Fuck, he wished he could just keep that name and not have to tell Jaskier his real name, not have to see the understanding and revulsion as soon as the pieces clicked into place and he recognized Geralt's other epithet.

But he wouldn't dishonor Renfri's memory like that, so he met Jaskier's eyes squarely and said quietly, "Geralt of Rivia."

And there it was: the pause of recognition, the eyes widening slightly, and…

Blue eyes filled with something, but it wasn't hate or revulsion or anything Geralt could put a name to. Jaskier tilted his head slightly, regarded him with that unreadable expression for a long moment, and said quietly, "If it's all the same to you, I think I'd rather keep calling you Gwynbleidd instead. It suits you better."

_What the fuck?_

"If you like," he replied, feeling off-balance and not sure what else he could say.

Jaskier's smile at that was almost enough to distract Geralt from the sharp pain and the loud crack as the elven healer set his broken nose.

 _Almost_. On instinct he jerked back and snarled, teeth bared for a moment before he got himself under control.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"Wolf, indeed," Jaskier said, but he was smiling as he said it. "Do try not to bite me, won't you? Else you'll have to be the one stitching my pretty face back up instead of the other way around."

Pretty face? Was…was Jaskier _flirting_ with him? Apparently the world wasn't done surprising him yet.

Careful fingers were feeling along his ribs before he could come up with a reply. Geralt hissed between his teeth as Jaskier probed the cracked spots to check for more severe breaks.

"Sorry," Jaskier said. "I'd like to help these along a bit, but unfortunately my chaos is…a bit more limited than I'd like. I need to reserve as much as I can to deal with the head injuries."

"Hm." There didn't seem to be much to say to that, so Geralt didn't try. The silence was oddly companionable as Jaskier worked his way through Geralt's various injuries, until all that was left was the head trauma.

"Best if you lie down for this bit, Gwynbleidd," Jaskier said as he guided him down onto the pallet.

Geralt closed his eyes, almost overwhelmed. Jaskier had said it so casually, as though it were nothing of import, as though it were any other name. As though it weren't an unearned, undeserved, but desperately needed respite from the specter of Blaviken that haunted him nearly every waking moment.

Jaskier's hands came to rest across Geralt's forehead, cool and dry and soft. His medallion hummed lightly as Jaskier's magic woke and slid between them. Tears of relief started in his eyes as the worst of the pain began to fade, the dizziness receding and ringing in his ears quieting.

The new sense of peace that enfolded him freed his mind to think about other things, though.

"Jaskier?"

"Hm?"

"When you first came in, you were…angry at me. Even more than the rest of them had been, it seemed. Why?"

Jaskier sighed. "I wasn't angry at you, exactly. I was…hm. I'd been told there was a human prisoner, and while my fellows were allowed to vent some of their hatred on that human's flesh, I was commanded to leash my instinct and heal it instead."

"You were resentful," Geralt murmured.

Jaskier laughed, a little breathlessly. His magic grew warmer between them. "Yes. And then I realized they'd been lying, or wrong, or misled, and we didn't have a _human_ prisoner at all. That my people had been venting their anger on someone who should've been a…a kindred spirit, instead." He sighed, ire giving way to exhaustion. "Toruviel and her anger issues," he muttered.

Geralt forebore to comment on Toruviel or her anger, letting Jaskier finish his work in silence as he simply basked in the idea of being a kindred anything to this beautiful, bright elf, who knew who he was and yet still looked at him like he was someone who mattered. Like he wasn't just the Butcher of Blaviken.

That wasn't just a surprise. It was a fucking gift.

Jaskier's hands leaving his face called him back to reality. Geralt pried his eyes open and watched Jaskier move about the room, putting things away and tidying up a bit. Only, when he was done, he didn't come back to where Geralt lay but went to the door instead, as if to leave.

A sudden fear seized him and Geralt struggled to sit up, a faint sound of pain and concern slipping between his lips. Jaskier whirled at the sound.

Between one breath and the next Jaskier was there, kneeling beside Geralt and pushing him back down. "Hey now," he soothed, "easy, there. What are you doing?"

What…was he doing, actually? Geralt had to admit it was an excellent question, and one he didn't have an answer for.

"Where are you going?" he asked instead of answering.

"Oh, wolf," Jaskier said, voice so thick with compassion that Geralt felt as though he would drown in it. "I'm just going to talk to Filavandrel, that's all. I'll be back soon enough. I promise. You just rest, all right?"

Reluctantly Geralt let himself sink back onto the pallet, but his eyes followed Jaskier helplessly as the elf returned to the door again.

Standing in the doorway, Jaskier turned back and met Geralt's eyes. "You can rest safely, Gwynbleidd, I promise you." Chaos flickered around his fingertips as he pressed them against the doorframe. "No one will touch you while I'm gone."

Geralt stared at the shimmering blue-and-gold shield that filled the doorway for a long time after Jaskier left.

* * *

"Jaskier?"

"Hmm?" The elf rolled onto his side to face Geralt, bedroll rustling gently.

Geralt kept his eyes on the stars shining through the branches above them. "What really happened with Filavandrel and the other elves?"

He saw, from the corner of his eye, how Jaskier stiffened slightly.

"I told you already, Gwynbleidd," Jaskier said lightly, "I assuaged Filavandrel's concerns about your discretion by offering to accompany you and work to spread an alternative version of the tale that would protect our people from further attack by the humans."

That name, in Jaskier's honeyed tenor, produced a warm glow in Geralt's chest, but he refused to be diverted.

"That's what you said, yes," he agreed. "But it doesn't make sense. What could you really do to stop me if I had broken my word and told the humans what really happened in Dol Blathanna that day? Even if you spread your…creative retelling…the damage would already have been done. And Filavandrel isn't stupid. He's survived this long, kept your people alive this long through his caution. I just don't see him taking that kind of risk or believing your presence to be insurance enough to mitigate it."

Jaskier sighed. He rolled back onto his back. "Do you really need to know the truth?"

There was a warning note in his musical voice.

Geralt had never been very good at listening to warnings.

"Yes."

Geralt listened to the slow, careful breath Jaskier drew before he spoke, as though controlling strong emotion. "I…may have put my foot down and told him that he was going to have to go through me if he wanted to harm you further." He flicked a brief sideways glance at Geralt. "And I may have said this in front of a dozen other elves. And there may have been some rather choice words and threatening of certain of Filavandrel's body parts."

Geralt pushed himself up onto an elbow and stared in shock. Jaskier had openly and vehemently defied his king to protect him?

"After such a public show of defiance, we, um. We agreed it would be best for all involved if I were to escort you from Dol Blathanna myself."

 _And not come back,_ was the unspoken second half of that order. Geralt heard it loud and clear. Jaskier had defied his king, threatened his king with violence in Geralt's defense, and been exiled from his home for it. His demand for Geralt’s safety had been granted, but at a steep cost.

Surprise didn't even scratch the surface of what Geralt was feeling at that knowledge.

"Why?" The word hurt his throat coming out. "Why would you do that for me? Call me all the pretty names you like, but you know what I really am. Why the fuck would you throw away your home and your place among your people to defend that?"

Jaskier's eyes glittered like gems in the dying firelight, shining with unshed tears. Still Jaskier gave Geralt a look of gentle warmth that somehow managed to burn like a forge's fire over his skin.

"You aren't ready to hear the answer to that,” he said quietly. “For now, let’s just say that you were in my care, and I take that seriously.”

It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. But Jaskier was right - he couldn’t bring himself to push, to demand the real answer. He sure as fuck wasn’t about to admit it, but he was...afraid, a little, of what Jaskier might say.

Slowly he lowered himself back to his bedroll, but he couldn’t relax enough to sleep. He listened to Jaskier flip over onto his stomach, then back onto his back, then one side, then the other, and start to repeat the whole sequence over again, restless and shivering even though the night was a mild one.

At last Geralt sighed. “Jaskier.”

Sudden and utter silence descended.

“Jaskier?”

“Sorry,” Jaskier whispered. “I’ll…sorry.”

“That’s not…” Geralt sighed. “Come here.”

Jaskier sat up slowly. “Are you sure?”

Geralt didn’t answer, just flipped back the corner of his blanket in invitation. He didn’t like saying things twice.

Thankfully Jaskier understood. Moving almost cautiously, he brought his bedroll over and laid it right next to Geralt’s, then joined him under the blanket. He held himself stiffly until Geralt huffed a nearly-silent laugh and tugged the elf closer, settling him with his head on Geralt’s shoulder and feeling him slowly begin to relax.

“Go to sleep, Jaskier.”

“Goodnight, Gwynbleidd.”

**Author's Note:**

> There is now [incredible art](https://twitter.com/honeylemontrash/status/1329845455857958913) and a tragic backstory to go with it, courtesy of the amazing @honeylemontrash ([twitter](https://twitter.com/honeylemontrash)) ([ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeylemontrashcat/pseuds/honeylemontrashcat))


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